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Life-Changing Tips' by Sarah Barry

“Sorry, no, we don’t have an appointment today,
tomorrow, next week or ever” I heard myself say confidently. How could
this woman breeze in and expect I would forget the searing humiliation she
prepared for me? The bright lights sparkled across the road as the dusk forced
me to notice them, something that I had not been able to do for a while after
her destructive deed.

It had been the week before Christmas back then. School had
often being a place that made me feel like a tiny fish swimming against the
tide of life. But then the tsunami came when Laura decided it was my turn to
receive her interest. I had longed to be seen, but not like this. She rammed my
back hard against a notice board, using drawing pins to mockingly pin my jumper
to the wall. Her pathetic followers were buoyed by the consumption of my
dignity. “Nail her,” they chorused. Shouts of “Nailer”
echoed after me for an eternity after that.

I felt alone, drifting away and fearful of each day. The
days left at school were numbered. I saw my sister’s friends hating their
jobs, longing for the freedom of the weekend. My qualifications weren’t
great, money was scarce and ideas rock bottom. But for the first time free
choice confused, yet released me.

Miss Murphy rescued me with the sunny appointment at the
careers guidance centre. One long month later dreary mornings finally turned
bright as I started my beautician’s course. The girls there treated me
like I was acceptable. I graduated the beauty course with the highest, proudest
mark of my year, securing my place in an fashionable salon I could only have
ever stood outside before. The unhappy Nailer had been vanquished as
Laura’s cruelty became deeply buried.

New and interesting people chatted away to me daily, I paid
my Mam rent and could even afford new clothes whenever I wanted; the tips alone
were life-changing.

But not as much as the surprising windfall that dropped from
the sky. Aunt Jane shocked us one last time with her fortune. My “Beach
Bar” is thrillingly busy every day. I employ lots of those true friends
who helped guide me to shore. Miss Murphy even drops in once in a while; not my
usual clientele, but even 70 year olds love a free manicure. On rare occasions
the girls here call me “Nailer”. In the context of the rows and
rows of nails being presented for decoration I don’t mind. Its only good
humoured ribbing, as they all assume my nickname reflected my adolescent desire
to own a Nail Bar.

As the Christmas cheer natters all around me I stand tall
and beautiful. I am safe here and she is the one out of her depth. A sudden
comprehension emerges in her eyes, as Nailer appears before her. The bright
lights reflect on her shiny boots as she scuttles down the street. I banish her
from my mind forever.

I’m not lover of art. I don’t know how to react to a splurge of colours on canvas. Or appreciate fine brush strokes on paper. And yet, this evening, I chance upon your painting. It has started to rain, and I don’t have an umbrella. So I step inside the nearest door. As I brush off the raindrops from my coat, I look around. I’ve walked into an art gallery, and you are there, beaming at me. Urging me to come and look at your art. I hesitate. I don’t want to move around and make appropriate noises. Nor make eye contact with you. I have things to do. But you seem so alone in this space. So needy of appreciation that I walk around the room. You paint local scenes. The farmers’ market. The Dover crossing. The white cliffs seem to be your favourite subject. I cannot believe what I see. This painting: The study of a boy with an aeroplane. I look closer and my breath stops. I turn to look at you. Are you some kind of sorcerer who has drawn me in here? Where did you do this painting? I ask. By the…

Salome is looking shabby. Time to give her a bit of a hand-wash. I don’t know why I called her Salome. It suited her, I suppose. My Arthur thought I was mad naming a knitted toilet roll cover, but I have names for all my bits-and-bobs.
Last Wednesday in the month today and so ‘cleaning out the china cabinet day’. As I swirl the Fairy Liquid in warm water, I think how Mother told me to always keep to my list of chores, no matter what.
Arthur died on the third Thursday in February. It was ‘clean the horse-brasses’ day. Once the Powers That Be had dealt with him, I set to. Now, whenever I do the brasses, I think of Arthur, his chin on his chest and his arms folded neatly. The nurses thought I was bonkers when I told them what I was rushing home for. There was no point hanging around, though, was there?
I’m just drying off The Royal Albert when I hear the back gate click. Bloody Susan again. Wonder what she wants to borrow this time?
“Lena? Just coming to see you’re al…